Almost Magical

He pulls out from his hat

Doves that take wing and fly,

Rabbits that elude and flee,

And so many other somethings.

Whatever comes into my head,

He draws out from his hat—

The unthinkable, the uncanny,

But he keeps all for himself,

Saving nothing for me.

Yet whatever my heart aspires

Does not emerge from his hat.

For a moment he gives me hope,

And in another takes it away.

He only piles up colorful cloths—

Rags, ribbons, and laces . . .

And then he blows silver dust into my eyes . . .

Dear magician,

Phenomenal illusionist,

Oh, God,

I will call you what you want,

Only pull out the flower of my wounded heart.

Don’t give it to me, never mind,

Just show it to me, that’s enough . . .